


Love never harmed a winged creature

by Pseudothyrum



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, frankly ridiculous amount of bird symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drake falls into it because it’s passion of a sort, because it’s something true. True hatred is better than false love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love never harmed a winged creature

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Weight of One Man's Heart
> 
> Thanks to my beta, as always!

Drake watches the birds fly away. He pins his hopes to them, watches them go up and away. He closes his eyes and breathes, and like Icarus the birds fly too close to the sun. Their wings catch fire and they burn away, a blinding flash of light leaving only ash to sink to the earth and blanket his mind. Everything grows grey, featureless, tranquil. Empty. Alone. 

***

He goes through his days like this, cold and grey, empty and careless. He feels nothing and he doesn’t miss it. He goes to sleep and his dreams are grey. Colour lives in the corner of his eyes, bright yellow and pink, but it is out of his grasp, it flits away uncaged. His life is still and gentle and absent. He functions, he speaks, he works like a real man but he is hollow, bones drilled through and marrow drawn out. Nothing touches him.

Except for Jackson. 

Jackson’s words are pinpricks of feeling, sparks of red setting the grey landscape alight, digging into Drake’s skin, twisting Drake’s stomach. He is heat, like getting too close to a fire in the dead of winter. Sensation rushes in too quickly, floods the nerves and they roar to life suddenly, painfully, but gratefulness for feeling inures one to the pain. The burns come after, linger afterwards, regret trickling in like melted snow. 

**

When they work they are defined by tension, ruffled feathers and wounded prides, a dance of barbs and needles. Their orbits are doomed to decay, but neither of them is willing to concede. Their swipes at one another grow ever more cutting, they pull each other close and learn each others' hearts to wound more fiercely. When they finally come together, it is a violent thing. They clip each others' wings and crash together, tangled together, falling together. Hatred blooms red, blooms black and blue and faded yellow on tarnished pink. This is passion, this is true feeling. There isn’t love here, love has nowhere to roost in this burning place, but it is something to feel.


End file.
